note: thanks so much for the reviews! truly. i am shocked that anyone would take the time to read this. and shinus: stop trolling. thanks, angle. heartheartheart

disclaimer: i donut own twililght.

He looks smug.

I don't remember beating his face in, but his face is beaten in.

Is it safe to assume that I beat his face in?

I am assuming.

I beat his face in and he looks smug.

I'm sitting on the asphalt floor opposite him, my body protesting every one of my movements as I bend my knees slightly to my chest to tie my laces. I'm tired and I stare at the limpness of the strings and wish to be them.

Some fuckers want to be doctors.

I want to be shoelaces.

He laughs.

"What?" I ask. My hands have minds of their own; they are gripping my laces and right over left and pull…

He laughs again.

"What?" I ask. Loop both sides and right loop over left loop and pull…

"Can't believe I lost out there, man."

He's cocky and I don't blame him.

You have to be.

He's four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than me.

I am cocky.

"Yeah."

My shoes are tied.

My eyes are on them.

"Better to 've lost to you than anyone else."

He gets up, slinging a small backpack over his shoulder. His face contorts in pain; he is wincing and wobbling on his legs. A newborn. He limps over to me and extends his hand.

He wants a handshake.

"Thanks," he says.

I shake his hand and nod my head.

Thanks for nearly killing you?

You're welcome, I want to say.

Anytime, I want to say.

He makes his way over to the rickety stairs leading to the ground floor of the bar. His movements are slow, almost lethargic. You can't really tell, but he's dragging his left foot. This guy, I don't remember his name, he looks to be holding his breath and biting his lip. He's trying not to look like a pussy, but he can't fool me.

I know.

In the vastness of this basement, a number of light bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting warm hues of oranges and yellows onto the surrounding areas. That warmth, that light, it's welcoming. The far corners of this place look like black holes, too dark to see into. Rats scurry around in those corners, hiding. I'm always the last to leave this place so I know. I see.

Sometimes, if you stand really still, you'll feel a prickling sensation, a scurrying of tiny feet running across your forearm. So light and feathery, like words being whispered into your skin. It tickles and you want to laugh and you don't like that feeling so you swat at your arm and feel small bodies. Spiders.

But besides the darkness, besides the rats, besides the spiders, I feel safe here.

Times like these, when everyone is gone, I am safe here.

The lights furthest from the stairs start to shut off.

Even if all the lights were to turn off, I'd still be able to make my way out of here. I know this place like I know the number of stupid freckles on my face—forty-six. Twenty-three on my nose. Fourteen on my left cheek. Nine on my right. Forty-six.

I sling my athletic bag over my shoulder and my body locks up, not wanting to move. Too soon, too soon. My left hand is still numb and it feels fat and heavy and I'll probably have to get it checked out.

But I can't stand here forever, and despite my body's complaints, I move.

I move, and it hurts, but I move.

The stairs creak beneath my weight and the third one groans its familiar groan, ready to give out but it's reliable. It's damaged and splintering, but it's reliable.

I emerge from the darkness and onto the dimly-lit ground floor. The owner, he's cleaning out glasses behind the bar.

I do some sort of half-assed salute in his direction. "Time?"

"2:26."

I nod at him and he nods back at me and I head toward the exit.

Outside, it's cold and I quickly zip up my jacket.

And I hear yelling. Feminine. Loud.

My eyes shift towards a car in the lot. The guy with the beat-in face, he's pressed up against the passenger side and he's looking down at a girl. He's wide-eyed and I can tell he's scared because his shoulders are pulled up, up, up towards his ears and his chin wants to say hello to his chest.

The long hair, it belongs to that girl who doles out pity on random guys.

"… idiot, fucking idiot. I cannot fucking believe you, Jacob."

Her voice is venom and hate and disbelief and grates on my nerves.

This Jacob, I now know his name, his wide eyes look over at me and the girl gets distracted because she's now looking at me and I'm looking at her and she's kind of cute with her big eyes and straight nose and glossy lips.

"Get in the car," she tells him without breaking eye contact.

He scurries into the car without hesitating and the door slamming shut breaks her hold on me because she's looking at me with suspicious eyes but I haven't done anything to her and I'm annoyed.

I start to walk away from the bar, away from the lot but the girl with frizzy hair, she's walking towards me and I don't want that.

"Hey!" She's huffing and irritated and her small feet thump on the asphalt.

I ignore her.

"Hey!" she says. It sounds like she's jogging. "D'ya need a ride?"

I shake my head and hunch my shoulders.

I don't want her near me.

Away. I want her to go away.

It's quiet for a while as I make a left turn onto the street and I don't hear her feet hitting the ground anymore.

"Who're you fighting out there?" I hear, her voice shrill and girl and intrusive and annoying.

And I don't answer.

I don't have an answer.